Bad Luck
by EleanorK
Summary: He thought, almost lovingly, of his own bunk back at the prison, with the piles of random blankets they'd accumulated, in runs and in searching through the grounds. How much warmer it was. But he'd never spent a night in his bunk with Carol being so short and pissed off right across from him. - takes place between Season 3-4, while still in the prison.
1. Chapter 1

Carol was running when he caught up to her, her hair wet from the rain, jacket torn and face full of blood. He only slowed for a minute and she climbed on the bike and then he pitched through the ditch at full speed.

"Where are the others?" Daryl yelled as they slid past a turned-over semi.

"They're behind on the bridge," she said. "I was the only one who made it through after you. I don't know if Michonne and Rick made it back to the car. I would have gone back but then they… they started coming up. Out of the water and there were so many of them…"

"Do we go back?"

"I don't know. Rick said to find you."

She stopped talking, just gripped him harder and he kept driving faster. He knew to stop asking questions. He didn't want to know. And he didn't know what Rick meant. Did Rick expect him to know what to do? How the fuck should he know? A supply run gone bad was one thing. But none of them expected the goddamn bridge to go out, especially when there was no one on it. No one and nothing. Until the creek started to churn with walkers. And with Carol along for the ride, to top it off. Carol wasn't helpless, but she didn't work with the group like Maggie and Michonne did. She wasn't used this kind of shit. Maggie was sick; Michonne and Rick were on their own. They were only after fucking diapers and batteries and gas. That was it. And now they were fucked.

He stopped the bike in an underpass. They just sat there, quiet, the engine popping and clicking a bit.

"I gotta think."

"Okay," Carol said. She got off the bike to watch his back. He stared ahead. The road was creepily empty. They didn't normally take this route and now he knew the reason. It was bad luck, this way.

He turned, looked at Carol. She had her back to him, her hand on her knife at her belt. Was just watching things, the rain dripping down all over her, sliding down the back of her jacket.

"Carol," he said.

"Yes."

"I don't know what to do," he admitted. "I just…I don't." He hated to say it, but he couldn't lie.

She turned and he saw the blood on her face, from a long cut across her forehead. He handed her his red handkerchief and nodded at the blood.

She dabbed at the cut. Blinked at him.

"How much gas in that tank?" she asked.

"Enough."

"That sign's for a rest stop," she said.

"That could be trouble."

"And this isn't? It's storming, Daryl," she said. "And we're out exposed. There might be a map there, at least."

He nodded and she got back on the bike. He swore her grip wasn't as tight this time.

The rest stop was a disaster. Mudslide around the entrance ramp made it impassable, though Daryl was able to slurry through and get back on the main road without attracting more than a few walkers.

"Try that campground up next," Carol shouted.

He didn't want to do that, but it was the next thing on this eerie bad luck road, and so he didn't argue.

He cut the bike's engine once they approached the campground entrance, which was a broken chain attached to a sign that said CLOSED.

"Let me push the bike," Carol said.

"What for?" he asked. He still thought of it as Merle's bike, strange enough. He still didn't want anyone messing with it. As if Merle could still get pissed at him or something.

"You want to pick off walkers, or push the damn bike?" Carol said, her voice tight.

He nodded. He let her push the bike. He picked off one walker less than a minute later and though he had his back to her while he reclaimed the bolt, he swore he could hear her mutter about it. Like, I told you so.

But that walker was the only one and by the time they got to the little ranger cabin, he was even more uncomfortable. As if the bad luck road was following them all the way to this place, too. And he couldn't even defend them against it. The rain was lessening into mist, but the sun was nearly down now and they needed to clear this cabin in order to survive the night. Otherwise, he didn't know. Climb up in a tree? Who said walkers couldn't climb?

But then Carol set the bike on its stand and then she was at the door, kicking at it. Was she kicking to make noise or trying to open it? He felt annoyed, but didn't want to yell at her. After all, he was being pretty dimwitted himself now. He just stood behind her, waiting, looking, expecting the night from the trees around them to attack any second.

Then, with her hip, she pushed the door open with a brutal crack.

Goddammit. She was being careless. Too loud. But she was already in the cabin, looking to clear it. And he was behind her, because what else was he gonna do?

But just like the bad luck road, the cabin was empty. Unlocked and empty. There was a scattered remains of some animal nest on the floor beside the registration desk, but it looked old, abandoned.

He shined his flashlight up into the ceiling: nothing. Carol shut the door behind him and slid the bolt.

"Wait…"

"It's clear," she said, sounding annoyed. She took off her jacket and shook it over the chair behind the registration desk. Then she started opening cabinets. Ransacking. Quick, as if this were a supply run. He just stood there with his bow and watched her in the dim.

"What're you doing?"

"Looking for towels. For blankets. For water. For anything, Daryl. Jesus Christ. What is going on with you?" She walked toward him and grabbed the flashlight out of his hands and stalked toward another cabinet. This one was locked.

"Hey, lemme get that…"

"No, it's okay," she said, and pulled something out of her side pocket. A bolt cutter. Maggie always carried one just like it. Carol snapped the lock off the cabinet before he could even ask her if that was Maggie's or what and then she was pulling open boxes. Granola bars, some bottled water, a bag of Halloween candy.

"Is that Fun Dip?" he asked, pushing next to her.

"Hmm?" she said. Distracted. She was digging through the first aid kit, then finding another flashlight, some candles and matches.

"It's the grape kind," he said, holding the packet like it was something holy. "That was always my favorite."

She looked at him like she wondered if he'd been dropped on his head and he felt like a dumbass. Only when she told him she found a pint of tequila could he look at her again.

He didn't mean to sleep but something was off. And by the time she'd commandeered all the supplies and food and water into a little pile on the registration desk and tossed him some blankets, he couldn't help it. He'd leaned against the wall, across from the giant map of the camp ground, and just fallen asleep. His hand holding the Fun Dip pack. He slipped it into his coat. Rubbed his face to wake up.

"Carol?"

"I'm here," she said. He looked up and saw her standing in front of the campground map.

"Sorry," he said. "Fell asleep."

"I know," she said. "And you didn't even try the tequila." He stood, walked over at the supply mountain on the desk.

"This is shit tequila," he said.

"Is there any other kind?"

"The good stuff is smoother," he said. "It's already open. Did you have some?"

"It came that way," she said. "Someone's private stash, maybe."

"Huh," he said, rubbing his eyes, shoving the tequila in his back pocket.

"Eat something," she said. "Then we need to figure out this map and see if there's another way back that doesn't involve that bridge."

"All right," he said.

"And fill your pack with that food and water," she added. "Who knows if we'll have to bail out of here."

He nodded. He didn't like being bossed around, but she was right; they had to be ready to flee, no matter what. And not preparing for that – well, that just wasn't how they operated. That kind of preparing was why they were still all alive.

He filled his pack, and hers, too, while he ate a granola bar and drank a bottle of water. In one of the desk drawers he found a utility lamp, the kind he'd used to use when he worked on his truck late at night. He clicked it on and carried it over to her where she examined the map.

"Here you go," he said.

"Where'd you find that?"

"Over there," he said, shrugging. Crunching his granola bar.

She hung the utility lamp off the edge of the map-frame, pointed at a little squiggle of black with her flashlight. "So if we go through here, then I think we can pick up this road, and there there's a few miles roundabout and that'll take us back to the prison."

"What if they didn't make it back?"

She pressed her lips together. Sighed.

"I'm just asking," he said, trying not to be defensive. Failing.

"Whether or not they made it back, we can't go the way we came," she said. "The connection isn't there. We have to just get ourselves back."

He felt tired again. And like he was going to go crazy.

But he just nodded at her and then she went to set up her bed roll on the floor, a couple of blankets in a pile, her pack for a pillow.

Across from her, he did the same. Like he was trying to stay on her good side. But he couldn't really understand it. Why was she so edgy? Was it something he'd done? When he'd said he didn't know what to do? Or was it the run itself?

She pulled down the utility light and switched it off. Then they were both in darkness. Listening to the rain on the roof of the cabin. Daryl was cold. Not terribly cold, but cold enough. The blankets they'd found were shitty scratchy ones, the kind you'd use in emergencies, nothing you'd sleep with by choice. He thought, almost sadly, of his own bunk back at the prison, with the piles of random blankets they'd accumulated, in runs and in searching through the grounds. How much warmer it was. But he'd never spent a night in his bunk with Carol being so short and pissed off right across from him.

"Hey," he said. Softly, in case she was asleep; he didn't want to startle her. Piss her off more.

"What," she said back, her voice even and flat, so he knew she'd been awake.

"What's the matter," he asked. "You seem, I don't know. Freaked out."

"I seem that way, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that makes sense. Because I am that way, too, Daryl."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she said. "You didn't make the bridge collapse."

"But I should have warned you," he said. "It's just one of those things, you know? You go out on a run, and you just have shit happen sometimes."

"You guys have never had a run that you didn't come back for that same night," she said, all huffy.

"I didn't come back that one time I was looking for Sophia," he said.

She paused for a moment before she replied. "That was different."

"No, it wasn't," he said. "Carol. It really wasn't."

"It doesn't matter now," she said. "There's nothing we can do about it."

"Right. So get some sleep."

"I can't fucking sleep, Daryl!" she shouted. "If I could, I would be. Trust me. Jesus Christ."

He sat up and reached for his flashlight. Trained it on her. She was sitting up, too. Blanket over her shoulders, squinting at the light.

"Come on," he said. "It's going to be okay."

She laughed. It was pretty terrible, hearing that laugh. "If there's one thing I can count on with you, it's that you don't tell me bullshit, Daryl. Please, don't fail me on that now. If you wouldn't mind."

He sat beside her. Clicked on the utility light, shut off his flashlight. Pulled the tequila out of his jacket.

"Hey," he said. "Have some of this. It might taste terrible, but maybe it'll calm you. Let you sleep?"

She sniffed at the pint. "I don't know. Maybe I should just stay awake until tomorrow. Until we get home."

"Don't think like that. We need to be ready to move."

"Then why the hell would I drink tequila?"

"You're not hearing me," he said, trying not to shout. "You need sleep. You need to be ready. First light, we'll go. I like the plan, what you saw on the map. All right? It'll work out."

"And we'll have enough gas to go that long way back?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." She took a little sip of the tequila and then made the worst pinched-up face. So bad, he almost laughed. But didn't. She wiped her mouth, licked her lips a little. But she didn't say anything.

"We can get more gas, if you want," he said, trying to soften her. "There's bound to be some cars on the way. This road? This road is weird. I've been thinking it's almost unreal. Creepy. Bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

"Yeah," he said. "Because, there's barely any walkers. No cars. It feels strange. Like there's something out there, beyond the geeks, you know? Some other fucking thing. Ghosts or something."

She handed him the tequila and he took a sip. Shit was bad. Burned, tasted metallic. He was surprised she didn't flat-out spit it out.

"Bad luck," she said, leaning her head against the wall with a sad knock. "I think that's me. On this run."

"What?"

"I shouldn't have come." She drank more tequila, made that funny face again. It was almost cute. Like a kid being forced to eat her vegetables.

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"Feels like it," she said.

"You're just thrown," he said.

"I'm thrown?" she asked. "Me? Who's been in a damn daze since all this happened? Mooning around for tequila and candy? I'd think you took a knock on the head, Daryl, with how out of it you've been. Another reason to think I've jinxed this run. You're out of your groove. I knocked everything out of what's normal."

She was closing in on the truth, but he would never admit that. Never. To tell Carol she needed to be back at the prison making soup or tending to kids, that she didn't earn her place in this group? He would not. They had been through too much; he had seen how strong and brave she was. He would never let her think that about herself.

"Carol," he said, trying to sound stern. "Look. Shit happens. Shit happened. All right? Hey, listen to me." He touched her chin, to make her look at him. "This has nothing to do with you. And fuck, if you hadn't had your wits about you, I don't know how I'd have made it. You're the one who got us here. If anyone's outta of it, it's been me."

She tossed her head so he wasn't touching her. She looked more annoyed. Like she might start yelling at him. He had never seen her like this, so burnt up with anger. And it did something weird to him, unlike when other people got angry around him, which just got him ready to fight. But he couldn't fight Carol. He didn't want to talk harsh with her, even. He became very still. Almost like he was the one who was afraid. He looked toward the high window, where the rain was sheeting down.

Then he felt her hands at his throat. Pushing him against the wall.

"Carol…?"

And then she herself was all over him. Sitting on him, over his hips, her fingers clawing down his shirt. He was instantly hard. Instantly. He almost wanted to take it back, in case this wasn't what he thought.

But it was exactly that. Her mouth pressed into his, wide open and wild. The clawing of her nails continued south. He grabbed at her ass, just to keep up.

She had a great ass, he noticed. He wondered what the fuck was in that tequila. He wondered what his deal was. He just felt so slow.

And she was fast as hell. Pushing off his coat, unbuttoning her shirt, pulling up his sweater. They were both down to skin in less than a minute but she was already working her pants open, and stuffing his hand under her panties. Where she was dripping wet.

Fuck.

He worked his hand into her as best he could but it wasn't easy, with his hard-on and the angle being bad. Still she was loving it, from the sounds she made. He pressed his face into her chest, licking. Her bra was still on and he wanted it off. He wanted everything off. He'd never been so turned on in his goddamn life. And with Carol.

Carol, who he'd never felt anything but polite respect for. Carol, now sitting on his hard dick while he tried to jam his fingers into her. What the hell?

Then she stood up. Started pulling off her boots. He scrambled to his own feet. Feeling off balance. He wondered if she wanted him to do the same with his boots. But before he could move she had slipped off her pants and her panties and was pushing him against the wall. Kissing hard again. Her hands unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them down. She laughed when she saw he had no underwear on. Like it was a surprise. And she smiled at him. Like for once she was happy. Him doing one goddamn thing right – not wearing any boxer shorts or whatever.

That smile made him feel like this was Carol again. Carol, who was always kind to him, even if he didn't deserve it. Carol, who loved the world so much sometimes it seemed like she could barely speak. He knew the feeling. He pulled her ass into both hands, his hard dick brushing up against her. Right there. Her legs went around his waist. He turned her against the wall, his arms lifting her so she was just there, right at the tip of him.

"Oh god yes," she said, right into his ear, and he did it, he slammed right into her. Without asking about rubbers or say so. And fuck if it wasn't the best thing he'd felt in weeks. Months. Goddamn. He felt like he could slam into her hard enough to knock down the wall. And then he spent the next short while doing just exactly that.

But finally, he felt like he couldn't keep it all up. Holding her up, his feet tangled in his jeans, her boobs still under that damn bra.

"Baby?" he said. And then immediately wanted to unsay it. Now that his dick was in her, he was calling her names like that? Jesus Christ already.

But she just said, "Uh huh," her voice sounding high and soft. Licking his neck. Not even flinching.

"Gonna put you down, okay?"

"Okay."

He slid out of her and she lowered, almost reluctantly, from his hips, her knees wobbly as she stood. He knelt down and got his boots off. Jeans, too. Then he pressed his face right into her pussy, both hands around her ass, too. Licking and tasting the salt and the wet and the sweet. Getting it all over his face. Her hands ripped at his hair and he sucked at her, where he hoped was her sensitive spot. He could never reckon what a woman would do when you really got at that spot; sometimes they pushed you away. Sometimes they smacked you away from it, like it hurt. But Carol just trembled and opened her legs wider and somehow, a fucking miracle in this day of all days, he felt her come, right against his mouth, her whole pussy shaking and wet and he swore he could hear her bones crack as her spine flexed back. He'd never felt a woman come like that before, right before his face, and, like most everything else in this day, he couldn't quite believe it had happened.

He slowly stood up. Looked at her, for the first time. She was breathing heavy, still. But looking at him like she'd never looked at him before. Thankful for him. But he'd never seen Carol look this thankful before. Surprised, too. Shocked. Like she was just realizing where she was. Who she was.

"Daryl."

"Yeah."

She went to speak again, but then didn't. She shook her head, laid her arms gently around his neck.

He kissed her. Soft. Like a first kiss should go, now that he'd softened her up. Her sweetness was all over his mouth, now hers, too. And this was the Carol he knew best. The one he admired and never wanted to hurt. His arms went around her and he gripped her so tight. She was so tough, he knew she was. But right now she felt so much slighter. He didn't see her like that, normally. But now he could feel it, touching her spine, and her ribs: how fragile she was. How well she hid it.

His fingers slipped under the straps of her bra, somehow undoing it and then he touched her breasts, which were small and pretty and popped up at attention for him. She sighed while he traced his fingers over them, sighed like she could barely stand it, and then he said, "I can't wait any longer."

"Then don't wait," she said. She knelt down, laid herself out on the floor and he wanted to keep that forever, the view of her below him, her body pale as milk against the dark wood, her legs open and perfect. Her eyes closed, like a woman at prayer.

He grabbed both knees, opened her wider, kissed the inside of her thigh. And then that was it for softness. He just rammed into her, full speed. All the way. And she screamed his name, her eyes flying open. Hands at his shoulders, watching him stretch above her, her ankles around his ass. She felt perfect to him. An exact fit. He was never sure about anything with sex, mostly, but this time he didn't second guess, and when he came, he felt her hands claw his ass like she never wanted him to pull out again.

"Water?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, sitting up and take it from her. She was naked but for her boots. He sat up in the pile of blankets they'd thrown together and gulped down the water.

He'd never felt this bone-tired. This blown-out satisfied. This good.

She sat beside him, her hands on her knees.

"You're calling me ma'am now?" she asked, taking the bottle back from him and having some herself.

"I am a gentleman," he said, slipping a hand between her legs until she squirmed and yelped, swatting him away. He laughed, licked his fingers.

They'd been eating his Fun Dip he'd saved in his jacket and now she licked the little white stick clean again. Then she kissed him, her mouth tasting like grape.

"Tastes damn good."

"The grape's almost gone," she said.

"You finish it."

"You sure?"

"Uh huh. You calmed down?" he asked. "Feeling a little better?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She crumpled up the Fun Dip, and tossed it aside. Then she laughed to herself. Laid down and pulled the blanket over her.

"If I'd known that was what it was going to take, I'd have jumped you sooner," she said.

"Really."

"Yes."

"Can't imagine that," he said. "You attacking me in the prison. Everyone around."

"I would never do that with everyone around."

"Such a lady," he said, bending down to kiss her.

"We make a nice set," she said, moving his hair out of his face.

"Think you're right." He kissed her mouth, then her nose. Examined the cut on her forehead, ran his mouth over that, too, until she shivered. He felt like he could relax, finally, too. Now that they'd done this, and it had been good. It hadn't been in his mind, but now he saw it for what it was: him and Carol, an unanswered question. He wondered if everyone had seen it, too. Been waiting for them this whole time to finally give an answer.

But now he didn't care except that she was next to him. He just wanted to sleep. Though he could see the sky lightening, just a bit. The rain had stopped. It'd be dawn soon. He laid beside her, coiling his arm around her. She offered up some blankets and they pressed together for warmth.

"Do you think it's still bad luck, Carol?" he said, his eyes closed.

"No," she said. "Like you said: shit happens. But sometimes you find out it happens for a reason."

"I don't believe in all that. God making shit go wrong just to make something right." He smoothed his hand across her belly, over her hip, feeling like he wanted to own her and never let go.

"God, luck, shit happening. Call it whatever you want, Daryl." She yawned and kissed his chest, right above his heart. "Tomorrow, we'll figure it out."

"It's already tomorrow, darling."

"We'll figure it out when we wake up, then," she said, laying her head on his chest. He tightened his arms around her more and then just as he felt the first bits of light from the window warm his face, he fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

There was something wrong with him before the bad luck road run and now it was worse.

He couldn't talk about it, not even with Carol. Not even now, when she came to his bunk late at night, stripped off her clothes, his, too, and did everything he could imagine in the dark to him.

Some things he'd never imagined, as well.

A few times, after he'd finished and she was sweaty and dazed - the woman could come a dozen times, he swore she had some knack or magic within her - he'd lie there thinking about telling her. About how he was breaking. Or whatever it was. The thing in him that was making him question. Making him pause, lose his nerve.

The thing in him that Merle could always see. That Merle could slap out of him, with a look, or even a fist. "Mama's little sweetie boy," he'd said, more than once. Merle could see it, all right; the thing in him that Carol didn't believe existed. His weakness.

Merle was gone now. Maybe that's why it was getting harder to fight it?

Maybe he didn't trust what they had going. Maybe it was all the extra time he'd had now, now that things were stable, that they weren't on the run all the time anymore, and that was making him into a pussy. Making him think about things he hadn't thought about before. Things he didn't like to think about.

Like checking out. Like giving up. Like seeing the point of people who had.

One day, he was standing outside the cellblock, waiting for Glenn to go on a run, thinking about this shit. How tired he was. How sick of everything he was. How he just needed something. Not just what Carol gave him on the nights she came to his cell, though he sure as hell liked it when she'd come to him, always unannounced. He loved it, even, though that word made him uneasy.

Maybe it was being in charge, now that he was on the council. People looking to him for words, for answers? That had never been his deal. And now, he felt like a liar, too, when people came to him with things. Their problems or questions.

"Glenn's waiting," Michonne, staring at him all sharp. "You coming?"

He tried not to seem rattled, but he was, and she was instantly suspicious.

"Daryl," she said. "What's going on."

He shook his head.

"Nuh uh," she said, coming closer. "What is it?"

"Ain't nothing," he said, and pushed past her. He spent the whole run not meeting her eyes, too.

* * *

Another night, Carol came to him, very late. They didn't have a lot of time to see each other; during the day there was always work to do. And she had some thing about bunking up with him; she never said, but he knew that there was something in her, probably leftover from her time with Ed, that made her not want to share in that way. Not that he'd invited her; he figured she'd want to double up together like lots of other people were. He wouldn't have said no. But she had her own clock she lived by and he understood what that was about. Knew the muck that he kept hidden inside him and respected her being slow to tell about it.

Tonight in bed, Carol was putting off the inevitable, though. Wanted to do everything but let him stick his dick in her. He was about ready to lose his mind, all of her twisting around him and over him in the dark, sucking and licking, his hands everywhere, trying to keep up. He could sense her smiling about it, too. She had this little naughty streak in her. You wouldn't guess it; she saved it mostly for him.

Now she had him on his back and was sucking him off. Only not really sucking; she was really mostly just licking the tip, teasing. She was downright sinful, when you thought about it. Sinful. Beautiful. Killing him.

"Come on, baby," he said, reaching for her, pulling her up, wanting her hips over him.

But she squirmed away.

"Just a minute," she said.

"Fine," he said, flopping back, trying to make out the stripes in the mattress above him in the faint light. Thinking about the different weights of motor oil. Imagining skinning a squirrel. Which tires needed air on what cars in their fleet. Anything with steps or a long-drawn-out process was good. Though not completely effective.

Because her mouth on him was perfect. Too perfect.

He reached down again and this time, when she looked up, he pulled her up short. Flipped her on her back and was over her before she could say anything.

"Daryl," she said, her voice surprised. But her legs opened wider and he slammed in deep. She was wet and juicy as hell, sucking dick always made her that way, another miracle of her that he'd been happy to find out, and she cried out, a little too loud; they were both careful to not make too much noise, for many reasons.

"Sorry," he said, kissing her.

Her hands grabbed for his ass and pushed him in deeper and then he couldn't think anymore. A minute later he heard the little gasp of breath she always took when it was happening, felt her pussy clench, then heard and felt her come all over him.

"Carol, god," he muttered, before he coming himself.

* * *

She only sometimes slept with him on these nights; some nights she had baby duty or other things going on. Again, she wasn't hiding things, he didn't think. Just was nervous about letting him own her, he guessed. Didn't want no man to own her as Ed had owned her.

But that night, she stayed. Didn't sit up, gather her clothes, yawn, say see you tomorrow. That night she coiled up next to him, both of them still naked, her skin sticky with sweat, her soft slender feet tangling with his knobby calloused ones, her head on his chest, and he thought it might come out, then. His confession. What was it? How would he explain it?

But then she just said, "Thank you, Daryl." And drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The next morning, she was gone. And not just gone from his bed. Gone. Probably dead. Rick said the car she'd taken had a bad alternator and nobody remembered topping it up with gas. Maggie had said Carol told her Michonne was going with her; Michonne reported Carol said she'd be with Maggie.

"We'll find her," Rick said. But his voice sounded unsure.

Daryl couldn't even shake his head. He didn't want anyone going. He didn't want it to be happening. He'd go alone and he'd find her and he'd stop crawling up his own ass with his own bullshit problems. He'd been blind that anything was even going on with Carol. Hadn't seen past his own worries, his own dick, even. This was Carol checking out.

Did Carol break, too? Like he was breaking? Had the bad luck road gotten to them both? He knew the others probably give him shit for believing in bad luck. In ghosts. The chupacabra. They didn't even know about the killer fog from out in the swamps his mama had told stories about.

He dropped his crossbow on the breakfast table and all the dishes jumped. Then he ran back up to his cell. Like a little boy sent from the table. There were tears but he didn't even care if anyone saw them. And he knew no one would follow, anyway. Not right away, at least.

* * *

It was Michonne, who came. But that wasn't until late. The moon was high in the window, just rising and her voice was soft but clear.

"Daryl."

He was on the floor. He couldn't bring himself to get in the bed, thinking he'd still be able to smell her on his blankets. Plus he'd slept like the dead and he felt guilty for it, too; another way he'd been selfish. Missing the clues.

Michonne crouched near him. He sat up against the wall.

"I found the car," she said.

He didn't say anything. He knew she was aware of him sitting there, listening.

"She wasn't in it," she continued. "There was some blood. I don't know whose blood. The keys were still in it. It had run out of gas, completely."

"That why she got out?" he said, his voice scraping along, swallowing the salt raining back into his throat.

"Don't know," Michonne said. "Maybe it was intentional."

"That's what Rick thinks?"

"Can't speak for Rick," she said. "Just saying it plain, though."

"All right," he said.

"I'll go again in the morning," she said. "If you..."

"All right," he repeated. Wanting her to go. Thanking god she couldn't see his face that well. Though Michonne seemed to have the same sense he did, the one that let him see what went unsaid.

* * *

But he didn't go that next morning. Or the next. He could barely leave his cell. He was afraid of it all. Of going out. Of finding her. Of seeing all their faces, when he'd return without her. Of walkers along the fence line, wearing her red shirt, wearing her face. Carol, covered in death.

He was sure she was dead. And he'd never told her. He'd never told her everything. Anything.

Beth brought him food. Herschel checked his heart; he was complaining of chest pains. Glenn told him to quit smoking and buck the fuck up, an unusual move for Glenn, but medicine he himself would have applied had Glenn been acting this dipshit pansy way. He was aware he was being ridiculous. A dipshit. A pansy. But he just couldn't, anymore. Could not. Movement paralyzed him.

Some nights he dreamt of the car Carol had taken. The Jeep with the good tires and the hardtop welded to the frame. He dreamed he took it and stopped on the bad luck road and got out, holding nothing in his hands, just waiting like a piece of meat for death to come scrabbling along with its endless hands and mouths. He'd always wake up before he felt the first walker touch him.

Then he'd lie awake and think of her. What had died with her, out there. Only things he'd be charged to remember now.

_Mama's little sweetie boy._

_Thank you, Daryl. _

Nights like these were long, grey tunnels. Endless. When he did fall asleep, the tunnel continued. And when he awoke, even when the sun was out, the grey endless feeling remained.


End file.
